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Tuesday, 20 August 2013

The day came with
uncertainties and the answer to yesterday’s question is, I am sad. The first
meeting was laden with expectations, at least that is what the nurse and the
psychologist suggested, these people are clued in, they know what to do and
they have solutions, the urgencies and immediacies will be assuaged with ease.

I soon became aware
that they do not talk to each other and the view that things might have moved
on from where they were left soon was discarded – I had to tell my story again,
a third time to people who seemingly interact, but the object of interact is not
the files, data or notes but the subject – I was the subject in this case.

Apparently, having
lived on continental Europe for 12 years and now returned for the UK for one
long year, left me rather bereft of some of the rights that UK residents would
have been able to subscribe to – it was disheartening.

Of options

The picture painted
even got gloomier as my countenance changed, I could feel the welling of my
tear ducts but, I held it all back, I am the cast of my macabre drama, I cannot
inflict any more hurt on myself than what I have suffered apart from a looming
prospect of destitution and vagrancy – has it really come to this? The way it
seems, it has.

There is no
breeding, class, education, life, luck or fortune that is not represented in
the homeless class and they all have stories just as good as mine, if not
better of events in their lives that led to where they have found themselves.

The meeting ended
with a list of numbers, addresses and ideas but without certainty, assurance or
confirmation, I was forlorn. As it transpired, he had enough examples of people
in my situation they could not help, I should have asked myself aloud – why am
I in this meeting?

Of strangers

I gathered my
thoughts in a few tweets as time passed, another 40 minutes before I meet my
new consultant; at least that is what I expected.

She came to get me
from the reception and as she introduced herself, confusion clouded my face, I
had to interject – that is not the name of the person I was expecting to see
and no one informed me in the almost 7 weeks since the appointment was made
that the consultant had changed.

She was to do his
rounds and by interference she had only leafed through my medical notes that
appeared to contain the amalgamated detail from the Netherlands, Wales and the
new interactions I have had since June.

Of preparedness

Again, by the first
question, it was not so much my filling in the gaps but a new narration of the
same tale that was already becoming a recital and performance at each
gathering, I was not too pleased.

With time, I
commandeered the notes myself, linking the data from the Netherlands to the
information from Wales, whilst charting a historical progression of the tales
of the bloods which on a chart would have looked like a jagged-saw graph, the
current readings on a depression after what was the best indicator noted in
almost 4 years.

Eventually, we
warmed to each other, though not to the level I was accustomed to in the
Netherlands, we discussed my drug regime, my options and additional tests.

Of innards

To be honest, I was
not keen on being probed or prodded any further today, I was barely keeping up
with myself on a mentally distressed level but in the process, we settled for 2
vials at the phlebotomist’s, prescriptions to last 4 months, which is unusual
because beyond 3 months in the Netherlands, insurance requires you pay for the
extra and then be reimbursed. I did not have €2,700 in my pocket in December
when I was last in the Netherlands, so I left with 3 months of medication even
though my consultant had prescribed 6 months with consideration of the fact
that I was then resident in the UK.

I will also be
visiting the imaging department, having secured an appointment for a month
hence, I am to fast for 6 hours ingesting nothing but fluids prior to the
largest organ in my body scanned – Gosh! I have pretty much really mucked my
life up too seriously to unravel in one short afternoon.

In between all
this, I also saw the pharmacist who ensured my prescription went ahead to the
pharmacy that I did not have to wait as long as 30 minutes to pick them up.

Of life

At the end of all
these meetings, I was not in the mood to socialise, I got on the train and made
my way home, burdened with an existence that clouded the glimmer of hope I had
earlier in the day and smarter for the fact that I refused to take on more than
what I thought I should handle in one day as advice from other friends came in.

As I stepped out of
the station, a man approached me, “Please can you help a homeless man with some
change for a cup of tea?” He said. But for his skin tone, I might well have
been looking in a mirror, though, it was a mirror of circumstances looming as I
emptied the coins into the palm of his hand, I said to him, “I will be homeless
from tomorrow.”

I made for the
place I had called home for the last 5 weeks, tomorrow being my last day, found
a short break from my turmoil with some sleep and woke up to write this before
I start to pack my bags and think of what really will tomorrow bring – there is
no point asking if I will be happy or sad, any comfort will do to find a place
to lay my weary head.

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I have many stories to tell, I am English of Nigerian parentage, I lived in the Netherlands for 12 years, returned to the UK recently but still have wander lust - the rest is somewhere online, most likely in on blogs.